A MORNING SALUTATION.

THOU

HOU rose of my love! from thy slumber arise!
The dawn from the orient empurples the skies;
The lark the blue regions of ether explores,
And exultingly trills his wild notes as he soars;
Now they sink in soft murmurs, now rapid and clear
All their melodies pour on the wondering ear;
The drops of the dew, liquid gems of the morn,
Dart their tremulous rays from the white-blossom'd
thorn,

And opening its leaves to the breath of the gales,
Each bloom and each floret its fragrance exhales.
But nor odours, nor songs, nor bright hues can impart
A pleasure to gladden thy lover's fond heart,
When absent from thee he still thinks on thy charms;
And sighs to be folded once more in thine arms!
Then, rose of my love! in thy beauty appear,
And the songs and the odours again will be dear;
The beams of the dawn with fresh glory be crown'd,
And the soul of delight breathe enchantment around.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

PHELAN'S ORPHAN BOY:

A TALE.

BY WHISTON BRISTOW.

HARK

LARK to that shout! the Briton cheers!

On ocean's breast a foe appears;

The sons of Gallia meet from far

The signal of a desp'rate war,
They feel 'tis no inglorious strife,
That knell was rung for many a life;
But of superior numbers vain,

They give them back their shout again:
Near and more near the vessels drew,
The hostile bands appear'd in view
With beating heart, and vengeful eye,
That flash'd the hope of victory!
His signal shrill the boatswain plies,
Swift to his post each seaman flies;
Yet gallant Phelan, loth to part,
Still held his Anna to his heart,
And folded in a fond embrace
His infant boy, whose beaming face
Seem'd in new joy and smiles to glow,
Unconscious of his parents' woe.
But Phelan must delay no more,
For hark, the deep-ton'd cannons roar,
A proud defiance England spoke
In burst of thunder, flame, and smoke;

With peal as lond the Gauls reply,
Then both the work of slaughter ply,
While many a gallant seaman dies,
And many a hero gasping lies!
But shriek and groan are heard no more,
Lost in the cannons' louder roar.
Poor Anna leaves the plaint of woe,
And busy in the hold below

The dying sooths, the wounded tends,
And pity, with assistance, blends!
Her husband's friend now meets her sight,
Borne bleeding from the thickest fight;
But while she calms the suff'rer's breast,
And lulls, with hope, his pangs to rest,
She hears the wounded messmate tell,
How, by his side, her Phelan fell,
And on the deck now bleeding lies,
With none to close his dying eyes!
She heard no more-with panting breath
She rushed through thunder, flames, and death,
And caught her Phelan from the ground,
(Where many a seaman dropt around);
She clasp'd him dying to her heart,
Her voice, her touch could life impart,
His eye shone with a moment's light,
Then heavily it clos'd in night;
He rais'd his head to meet her kiss,
And then his soul would part in bliss-
Oh tale! too dreadful to repeat !
Ere yet their mournful lips could meet,
A ball came arm'd with ruthless sway,
Her bending head was torn away
y!
Ere Phelan's spirit wing'd its flight,
Again his eyes unclos'd to light;

The shock a moment's life supplied,
One look he gave-then groan'd, and died.

The battle ceas'd, the cannons' roar
Now died upon the distant shore,
And silence hush'd the tumult loud,
For France to British valour bow'd:
The tempest raging in each breast,
No longer fed, had ebb'd to rest;
But even, in their hour of pride,
For Phelan and his faithful bride,
They deeply mourn; and those who stood
Then foremost in the strife of blood,
Now give their souls to feeling's sway,
And almost weeping turn away.
No aid from grief the dead can find,
Yet one dear pledge remains behind;
Their infant boy, of all bereft,
An orphan to the world is left;
With all the warmth of seaman's breast
A hundred fathers round him press'd,
And vow the tender child to rear,
And, like their own, to hold him dear!
But who the mother's care will give?
Without her aid he cannot live;
The stream of life that gave him breath
Is stain'd by blood, and seal'd in death.
They sigh and gaze, and muse and sigh,
And hope, yet fear the boy must die!
When one with sudden rapture spoke,
('Twas heav'n itself the thought awoke),
"The boy shall yet a mother find-
"A goat that's in the ship confin'd,
"Whose playful kid has chanc'd to die,
May now the nurse's aid supply."

Joyful they hail the happy thought,
Instant the shaggy nurse is brought:
Oh! wonderful is nature's sway,
The infant, as it smiling lay,

A mother in the goat has found—
The seaman's hope with joy is crown'd.

One grave receives the faithful pair,
Their boy is left their messmate's care;
The nurse now fondly loves the child,
That, like its kid, is sporting wild,
And sternest hearts can gleam with joy
To bless poor Phelan's orphan boy *!

SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH OF PATRIX.

SIGHS, and looks, and soft attentions,
Well a tender flame reveal;
He who least his passion mentions
Oft is found the most to feel.

Though from his lips the fair one hears
No word his wishes to discover,
Yet he who serves, and perseveres,
Plainly proves himself a lover.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

*The affecting circumstances recorded by the above simple story actually took place on board the Swallow, in a gallant and sanguinary engagement with a very superior force off Frejus,